


Daddy's Calling

by ixtecastles (spacerace), spacerace



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, Implied Daddy Kink, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Nepotism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:31:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8859967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacerace/pseuds/ixtecastles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacerace/pseuds/spacerace
Summary: Hamilton gets Washington in his pocket with only two words, but that's what George gets for being kind-of-platonically infatuated with such a flirt.
Also known as Jefferson's Joke Got Too Real and the Reynolds Pamphlet Taught us Nothing.





	

_"Daddy's calling,"_

You can hear the condescension and sarcasm drip from his voice like a leaky pipe. He sounds like honey and salt and royalty, the way he postures himself like he's settled on a throne. You had him by the neck in your debates, but now he thinks he has you on a leash. All because of George and his loud, steady voice that reels you in like a whistle. His voice is a white flag of surrender and safety drenched in the red of contradictory danger. Not that he'd ever hurt you, of course. He has a heavy hand over your actions, though. A single "go home" could, and has, left you at wits end. Is that what this is? Did you cross a line, go too far?

You breathe in shakily, sharper than ice and knives when the General calls your name from across the room. Calligraphy spills in thin lines throughout your brain, words and debates and excuses lacing deep into your core. How will the great, eloquent Alexander Hamilton writhe free of this one? What could you say this time to get him back between the fingers you write and fight with? Just as it always does, a twig of doubt snaps in your headspace. You've done it this time, it says, daddy's had it this time, it releases, mimicking Jefferson in its mocking caricature of your innermost father issues.

Time stutters. A bullet of thought rips clean through you.

_‘ Daddy's calling, ’_

Remind him why. He wouldn't call for Burr like that, not even Lafayette you bet. The nervousness in your eyes cracks and wavers with ideas and agitation. You wish he'd stop babying you. You have your own father, he left you for the hellfire, you don't want nor need another one.

Yet, your feet are glued to the ground for a moment, and in that split second, you are two halves torn at the breaking place. You could do two things here: Punch Thomas square in the mouth and give him what for, or, prove him right for a millisecond. Take the line Washington's casting, 'cause that's why he's casting it for godsakes, isn't it?

Suddenly, the generals voice doesn't sound so doom inducing. A knot forms in your gut, though. This is low. Still, the ‘Oh shit,’ on your face spreads into a sly, mischief ridden smirk as the pros overwhelm the cons boiling over in that 'pretty little arrogant head of yours'. It could work. In the fond words of one Angelica Schuyler: 'Handsome, and boy does he know it, '. 

Jefferson's glee turns to apprehension and morbid curiosity. What do you think you're doing, he asks in his head.

Well, Jefferson's damn right, _‘daddy's calling’,_ And you _will_ show him what for.

Jefferson was joking in that instant, aiming cruelties at your name, but you know what it means and in the few strides following your encounter, so does your opponent. You straighten up your dignity and mellow that sharkish grin into a fiery gaze, already scripting what you'll say as you turn on your heels and make your way to where Washington stands waiting. He looks stern, like you're about to get the tongue lashing of the century. A lecture bubbles up his throat so obviously that you can almost track its path in his veins, but your voice snaps up like a net to catch them before they rise. Using only your tongue, you drag him back into place.

"Yes, sir?"

And that's how you get him. A look in your eyes filled with crackling fire. The determined, frustrated tone of your voice strikes an underlying coquettishness that sets him aback for a second. Your boyish charm has never failed you yet, especially not with the General. He is far too fond of you, he cares too deeply for you. You know the ways of getting his paternity wrapped around your fingers, amongst other things of less innocent nature.

Washington admires your moxy with steely eyes, still scowling down at you, though softer in a way. The sternness shifts in him like a fish taking a hook with its fins rather than its mouth, or a rat sniffing a misleading scent but choosing to follow it anyways. He blinks at you and his brow twitches like he knows you've won. A cocky grin wants to roll out over your lips, but you press it down, awaiting his impending acquiescence. Jefferson isn't in your line of sight anymore, but you know he's watching you do it, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

"Meet me inside." The General makes his command quick, then leaves you for his office. As expected, you follow him. You're an indulgent man, though. You spare yourself a second to bask in triumph, and another to shoot Jefferson and his crowd a look before following the generals lead.

As you walk away, it's there on Jefferson's face. The evidence that he caught your vibe. Papers crumple in his fist. He just can't believe what he's seeing, and you find it hilarious. There's no way he could've topped this.

Two words and you've got Washington in your pocket.

Speaking of which — he wanted to meet with you in his office, didn't he? Time for that tongue lashing. Lucky you. (You're still probably in trouble.)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in half an hour, half asleep. I'm ready to throw away my shot.


End file.
